


Currently Thinking About Henriksen

by writinginthesecrettrees



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, M/M, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:51:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinginthesecrettrees/pseuds/writinginthesecrettrees
Summary: Currently thinking of Sam and Dean murdering their way across the country, and the FBI trying to track them and dreading what they’ll do next.Because the Winchester brothers are twisted as fuck, and they like to add themes to their gore.





	1. Valentine's Day

Currently thinking of Sam and Dean murdering their way across the country, and the FBI trying to track them and dreading what they’ll do next.

Because the Winchester brothers are twisted as fuck, and they like to add themes to their gore.

On Thursday, Agent Henriksen finds a large package on his desk, and he knows without opening it that it’s from them. He gets the forensics team up - no hope they’ll actually find anything _useful,_ but it all goes into evidence for when they catch up with them. They go over the packaging, find at least a dozen prints that will never be matched to Sam or Dean, then carefully open it.

It’s a box of hearts, with a couple of those nasty chalky candies glued to the top.

ALL MINE

and 

MY BABY

The box has a reddish brown stain creeping up the sides, almost black at the bottom. Inside, it looks like a pile of raw meat. Eventually, when the rookie crowding in to see is done retching and the medical examiner has come up with stainless steel trays to lay out the pieces, they find that the mound of flesh is hearts.

“Why 23?” the rookie asks. “What’s the significance?”

“Haven’t you read the damn file?” Henriksen snaps at him. “Sam is 23, turning 24 in May.”

“So?”

“So this how Dean brotherfucking Winchester says ‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’ One for each year they’ve been together.”

As he starts off to start the task of tracking the identities of these victims, to give their families the worst possible news, he hears the kid ask “doesn’t he mean _m_ otherfucking?”

Another member of the task force laughs, and says “Read the file, rookie. He said what he meant.”


	2. Mardi Gras

Currently thinking of Agent Henriksen sending his agents out undercover, trying to get as many men and women on the ground as possible. They call in local cops, and not-so-local cops deputized just for this, trying to saturate the parades and bars with law enforcement, all of them under strict orders to turn a blind eye to casual drug use or underage drinking.

New Orleans a big town, but the Winchesters haven’t missed Mardi Gras since 1996, and Henriksen’s betting they won’t miss this year either.

Of course, it’s gonna be a bit hard to find them in this sea of drunken revelry, filled with masks and fantasy. And he’s been closing in lately - the Winchesters may be arrogant, but they’re not stupid. Still, this is the best shot they’ve had at catching them.

Everyone on the team knows this is a long shot, but the rookie’s the only one who dares to say it. “Do you really think they’ll be here? They have to know we’re watching.”

“If they’re not here, they’re somewhere. We’ll know by Wednesday, one way or another,” Henriksen says, not looking up from his file of past Mardi Gras murders, trying to find a pattern. There isn’t one, except for the obvious - the Winchesters find someone and kill them. Sometimes more than one.

It’s well after sunset when they find the first body behind a dumpster. A woman, strung up by her wrists, naked except for the string of beads hanging over her chest. Her breasts have been removed, the cuts neat and precise.

“Sam,” says Henriksen, stepping back from the body and motioning for the forensics guys to take over.

He hears the rookie ask “How does he know?” and shakes his head.

“Dean’s messier, and he… _appreciates_ the female form. The mutilation… well. That’s all Sam.”

And the rookie looks like he has another question, but a call comes over the radio - another body found, another woman with her breasts removed. And that’s how the night goes, trailing the Winchesters up and down Bourbon street, always a step too slow to catch them, always too late to save their victims.

The last, found just before dawn, is the worst. One of their undercover cops, this time with a fake badge pinned to her flesh.

Henriksen looks at her - young, not long out of the academy, eager to prove herself, excited to be a part of the task force - and slams his fist into a brick wall. Well away from the scene, he’s not about to contaminate it. “God _damn_ Dean brother _fucking_ Winchester!”

“I thought he said Sam was the killer this time?” the rookie asks another agent.

The agent laughs bitterly. “Yeah. Sam killed her. All of them. But you know why?”

“Why?”

Henriksen looks over. “I guaran-fucking-tee Dean was handing out the beads. Because Dean Winchester _appreciates_ the ladies, but he really _appreciates_ Sam getting riled up and jealous.”


	3. St Patrick's Day

Currently thinking of Henriksen, sitting in his office with files spread out around him, hoping to get a jump on the Winchesters this year, when the rookie runs in, waving a map in his hand.

“Sir! I think I found something! There’s a town in California called Dublin, and they’ve got this two day celebration - sounds like the sort of thing the Winchesters would like, doesn’t it?”

His eyes are sparkling, eager.

Henriksen snorts. “I don’t think so, rookie.”

The rookie’s face falls, and he mutters, “I have a name.”

“And if you ever _read the fucking file_ , maybe I’ll use it. The Winchesters never do anything for St. Patrick’s Day.”

“What, they got something against the Irish?”

“Nah. They do Lent. Not Catholic, and as far as we know the only vice they give up is straight-up murder, but we get forty day reprieve.”

The rookie actually looks disappointed at that. Henriksen laughs.

“Don’t worry, rookie. We’re gonna start getting reports of two men all but fucking in public, and beating down anyone who comments on it. Start getting a trail to follow. And you know what we’ll find at the end of it?”

Rookie shakes his head, eyes wide.

“The Winchesters’ Easter celebration. Get ready.”


	4. Easter

Currently thinking of Henriksen setting his task force to searching local news and police reports, trying to find a sign of the Winchester brothers’ Easter celebration. Because yesterday was Good Friday, and wherever the Winchesters are they’ll be staying through Sunday.

“I think I got something, sir!” Rookie’s voice is excited, hopeful. “Report of a large wooden cross found along the Green River, out in the middle of nowhere near a town called… Jensen, Utah.”

“So what makes you think this is them, rookie?”

“Fits with the sickos’ affinity for holidays. And the sheriff’s report indicates a large amount of blood found on and around the cross.”

“Human?”

“Yup.”

“Wheels up, team. I think the rookie may have found something.”

The sun is setting when the team lands, but the sheriff is waiting and the scene is less than an hour away. Floodlights cast an unnatural brightness on the landscape, dark shadows looming in stark contrast. There’s not much to see. A cross, tall and planted firmly in the earth on a small hill overlooking the river, stained dark where some unfortunate was nailed to it, arms splayed. The dirt below is black with blood. There’s a familiar sinking feeling in Henriksen’s stomach; not enough time to find the Winchesters unless they’ve gotten very stupid. 

“No bodies found?” He has to ask.

“Nope.” The sheriff shakes his head. “Amount of blood says someone got dead, but the killer took the body. What’d they want with it anyhow?”

“You don’t want to know,” Henriksen says, then walks back to his team. They’re already setting up a search.

There’s no clear trail to follow, so the agents and local deputies split up into pairs, spread out in a grid, swing flashlights in long arcs over the river and rocky hills. Stars spill across the sky, and the moon hangs low and bright, just past full.

They call off the search just after midnight; everyone exhausted and stumbling in the dark. “Meet back here at dawn,” Henriksen orders. “We’ll start searching again once there’s light.”

*

“I think the victim is Aaron Weiss. Went missing in Denver late Thursday,” the rookie says, handing over bad coffee and a glazed donut.

“So? People go missing all the time, rookie. Why is this one our vic?” 

“His wallet and wedding ring were found stuffed into plastic eggs in a pet store. Rabbit cage. Sounds kinda like Dean?”

Henriksen turns away before the rookie can see him smile.

*

The sun climbs into the sky as Henriksen and his team pick up the search, looking for anything. Signs of a struggle, drag marks, footprints, tire tracks. They find nothing.

At noon, a pair of deputies assigned to the southeast quadrant fails to check in. Henriksen swears, orders everyone to the area.

“They’re good men, they can handle a coupla whackos,” the sheriff mutters, and Henriksen doesn’t bother telling him his men are dead already. He’ll see soon enough.

*

The missing deputies are found near an open and unmarked grave, eyes frozen terror-wide in death and throats more ripped out than cut. The sheriff falls to his knees in the dirt, staring at his men.

Henriksen is more interested in the grave.

There’s a body there, male, holes in the hands and feet and a gaping wound from something big in its side. It’s pinned to the plain wooden box by a metal stake, straight through the heart, and its face is smeared with gore. It’s lying on pink plastic grass, like a demented Easter basket.

They don’t stay long after that, stick around for the autopsy and condolences to the dead deputies’ families. 

“So why the stake?” the rookie asks once they’re on their plane, headed back home.

“What?”

“Report says it’s postmortem. Everything else was antemortem and reenacted the crucifiction, but the stake doesn’t fit either of those.”

“Neither does the Easter grass, or smearing the corpse with the deputies’ blood. The reenactment was Sam, the rest? Just Dean brotherfucking Winchester’s idea of fun.”

“But…”

“There’s no explaining the Winchesters, Matt.” Henriksen sighs, leans back in his seat. “You did good out there,” he says, crossing his arms. “Now try to get some sleep.”


	5. Happy Birthday Sammy

Currently thinking of Henriksen, waking up in his bed at three AM with a feeling that something’s not right. It’s still, silent and dark, and every instinct he has is screaming at him to hide. 

His gun is on the nightstand, just like every night, and its weight is comforting in his hand. He’s careful on the stairs, hugging the wall and skipping over the one that creaks. There’s a light on in the kitchen, and Henriksen knows he turned it off before going to sleep.

He stops out of the light streaming through the open door, back against the wall, tries to listen for anything out of place. Hears nothing but the rushing of his blood and too quick beating of his heart.

_Deep breath, Victor._

Henriksen whirls into the doorway, gun at the ready while his eyes sweep over the kitchen. A flicker of movement at the sink is just the curtain, blowing in the breeze coming through the open window.

Which had been locked before he went to sleep.

Half an hour later, and he’s found nothing. Searched every corner and closet and shadowy bush in the yard, but whatever - whoever - opened his window is gone. Or maybe he forgot to close it, forgot to turn off the light. He’s human, mistakes happen. He locks up the house, double and triple checking each door and window, opens the fridge to grab a beer before going back to sleep.

There’s a slice of cake on a plate that doesn’t match anything he owns. Black forest, covered in cherries and fucking rainbow sprinkles and a half burned birthday candle. And a chef knife, laid beside it, chocolate crumbs clinging to something dark red and sticky and 

“Brother _fuckers.”_

he wishes he could believe it was syrup from the cherries, but he knows better than that.

-

Currently thinking of Special Agent Matt Guntram, barely a year out of the academy, speeding through the streets of a suburb just outside Washington, DC, because his boss just called the team to his house where the Winchesters have left a present.

_(“We don’t have to figure out where they went for little Sammy’s birthday this year. Brotherfuckers came to us. They were in my goddamn_ house. _Get here.”)_

He doesn’t notice the big black car, pulled deep in the shadows a few blocks away. But the men in it notice him.


	6. Mother's Day

Currently thinking of Henriksen scrambling to get police protection details for his mother, and every mother of every agent on his task force.

Because the Winchesters have been making this personal, and he’d be stupid to ignore this possibility. 

“Sir? Do you really think they’ll come after one of our moms?”

“Fuck if I know, Matt. But it’s the brotherfucking Winchesters, and it’s Mother’s Day. You got a better idea?”

The rookie shakes his head. 

Henriksen sighs. “I don’t know if I want them to come after one of our moms or not.”

“Sir?”

“If they come after one of our moms, when we’ve got them covered as completely as we can, we could actually catch the fuckers. On the other hand, I really don’t want them coming after family - they’re too slippery, and I don’t want them anywhere near my mom. Or yours.”

“Thanks.”

The task force spends hours at their desks, fielding calls from anxious parents, checking in with the officers protecting their families, and combing the news for any sign of the Winchesters. It’s nearly ten, and Henriksen is starting to think that maybe they’ve gotten lucky - maybe the Winchesters had planned to go after one of them, and got scared off by the police - when he finds a report that he knows is them. “God _damn_ it.”

Every member of his team looks up.

“Baltimore,” he tells them.

-

They’re at the crime scene in just under an hour, the night still lit by flashing lights from fire trucks and police cars. Families are huddled together in clumps, on their own porches and standing in the streets. News vans beat them there, reporters standing in front of cameras talking about the unexpected tragedy.

A smouldering ruin that used to be a house is still smoking, and the medical examiner’s van already has a body bagged up in the back.

Henriksen ignores the news crews, ducks under the crime scene tape and flashes his badge at the cops who walk up to stop him. He heads straight for the fire fighters, asks for their captain.

“You’re looking at her,” a soot-covered woman says. 

“What can you tell me about the victim?”

“Female, around 30 years old. We carried her out, attempted resuscitation, and that’s when…” she trails off, jaw clenched.

Henriksen knows that look, has worn it himself more times than he can count. “You found out it was too late.”

She nods. “Too late before we got there. Hell, probably too late before the fire started. You’ll want to talk to Jerry,” she nods towards the ME’s van, “but she was cut up bad. Alan’s got her blood all over his gear.”

-

Her name was Mary Caldwell, and she was a counselor at a local high school. Had gotten home from visiting her mother, made herself supper, settled in for the night. Hadn’t expected to be tied to her bed and have her belly slit open, hadn’t expected to be left to burn with her home, hadn’t expected to bleed out while the flames crept closer and the fire alarm screamed into the night.

And Henriksen feels sick, because he’s just glad they didn’t go after his family.

Matt doesn’t look much better. He’s looking down at the woman’s face, incongruously peaceful in death. “We’re gonna catch them,” he tells her softly, and Henriksen thinks about warning the rookie against making promises to the dead, but they all had to learn that lesson at some point.


	7. Father's Day

Currently thinking of Henriksen, going over reports and hotline tips about Winchester sightings, trying to figure out where they are - or where they’re headed. He’s set a guard on his and his agents’ families again, although he doubts it’s necessary.

The Winchesters never used to do anything for Father’s Day, but that changed last year with the death of the Winchester patriarch just after psycho Sammy’s birthday.

He’d handed photos and autopsy reports to Guntram earlier that day, hoped that the kid’s fresh eyes could find some clue for what the Winchesters might be planning this year. Henriksen’s got them memorized, stamped in his brain: that unlucky trucker, tied to a plain wooden chair with some kind of satanic symbols painted on the floor around him. He’d been tortured before his death, half drowned with some sort of acid that left burns in his mouth and throat and lungs, and his chest is a mass of splintered bones and stab wounds.

“They made this one personal,” Henriksen tells Matt.

“How?”

“Killed the trucker that rammed into their car. The poor SOB killed their daddy.” 

“And the sulfur powder at the scene? That’s different than anywhere else.”

“We can’t say for sure. My theory is they were making gunpowder there. That, or it’s entirely unrelated.”

-

Currently thinking of Henriksen getting a call kicked over to him from another task force. “Sounds like your guys,” he’s told before the other agent hangs up, leaves him talking to the South Dakota Highway Patrol. When he’s done with them, he calls his team together, tells them to grab their bags and get to their plane. They’re headed for a truck stop off I-90, just outside Rapid City.

-

When they arrive, the bodies have been moved to the morgue but the rest of the scene is untouched.

“Don’t think you’ll get much useful here,” a highway patrolman tells him, and Henriksen has to agree.

The Winchesters had burned the place before the left, sprayed gas from the pumps across the shop and the Hardee’s attached to it before tossing a match, and the entire truck stop is scorched and black. It’s a miracle it’s still standing, after the gas in the pumps and underground tank exploded.

He leaves most of his team there anyway, sets them to combing through the wreckage for anything that might be helpful, heads over to meet Guntram at the morgue.

Body count is 22, and each of them shows signs of having been tied up. Two families (three kids, and Henriksen has to excuse himself to punch a wall when he sees the too-small forms laid out under blue sheets), six workers, and nine truckers had been at the truckstop when the Winchesters rolled up, and none of them survived.

The children, at least, died quickly. Gunshots to the back of the head, no torture or mutilation - their families could still have open caskets for them. Their parents were less lucky. The time of death is significantly later than the children, and Henriksen knows the sick fuckers made the parents watch as they murdered the kids.

The lone mother was carved up, deep stab in her gut the fatal blow, and her body was left where she died, eyes fixed unseeing on the dead children. Her husband, and the two fathers of the other family, had been locked into a station wagon, hands and feet bound, and crushed under a big rig. The workers all suffered multiple stab wounds.

The real rage was reserved for the truckers. Dismembered, and Guntram retches when the coroner points out how he knows they were still alive for most of it. There aren’t enough limbs for the number of heads and torsos they have. None of the parts have skin.

“They haven’t taken trophies before,” Guntram says.

“That we know of.”

“It all looks…”

“Uncontrolled?”

“Yeah. Messy. Think Dean did most of them?”

Henriksen considers that, thinks about Sam Winchester shooting three children coldly in their brains while Dean strokes over their parents with his knife, whispering about how they’re all going to die. Thinks about Sam sitting back while Dean goes to town on the rest of their victims. Gets his face up close to the pieces of trucker laid out on the autopsy tables. 

The skinning was expertly done, and they were all alive all the way through it. Drugs in their tox screens would have kept them alert, denied the comfort of unconsciousness.

The rage and violence might be Dean, but Sam has the same potential inside him.

“I don’t,” Henriksen finally answers, making Guntram jump. “I think Sam is just as into this as Dean. Think about it: their daddy was killed by some trucker who was probably drunk when he swerved into their car. You really think Sam’s gonna let his brotherfucking brother have all the revenge?”


	8. 4th of July

Currently not thinking of Henriksen sitting in his office, pouring over crime stats and police reports going back over the last 10 years, looking for some sign of what the Winchesters do for the 4th of July, unable to find a hint because this day is not about him.

It’s only them.

-

Sam is naked, bent backwards over the sun-warm hood of the Impala. The sky is brilliant, scarlet and gold fading into a deeper blue as the sun dips lower towards the distant horizon, and Dean doesn’t see it, too intent on lazily kissing Sam between sips of beer while they wait for true dark. A box full of firecrackers and sparklers waits in the backseat, and a man in a blue pinstriped suit waits in the trunk while the drugs that kept him quiet slowly wear off. If they’ve timed it right - and Sam’s a master of timing - he’ll be fully sober by the time they’re ready.

_In the summer of ‘96, it was almost accidental. Sammy waited for Dean in a park after dark, sitting on a picnic table and swinging his bare legs beautiful, and Dean couldn’t really blame the perv for walking over to him, money in hand. That didn’t save the man, though, not when Dean walked up and saw him with his hands all over Sammy, saw Sammy kneeling at the man’s feet, saw the world disappear behind a haze of red._

They’d picked him a week ago, picked him up three days ago, Sam playing pretty prostitute in a dark alley, and Dean waiting, quivering eager, with a syringe and it was so, so easy. Like it is every year. There’s no sport in it, not like there used to be, but that’s not the point. As the mark’s eyes dilate and his voice goes from a sharp yell to a lazy slur, Dean watches Sam, bent over in his ridiculous denim booty shorts and too-tight tank top and beautiful while he pulls out credit cards and cash, shoving those in his pocket before dropping the wallet in their burn bag.

_“What the fuck, Sammy?” he’d screamed when Sam dragged him off the man, curled on his side bruised and bloody from Dean’s assault, and Sammy grabbed Dean’s fist, pulled it to his little boy lips and sucked his knuckles clean. Dean groaned at the sight, baby brother’s eyes big and dark and looking up at him with crimson smeared over his lips. “What the fuck, Sammy?” he whispered, trembling with his need to take but it’s a line they hadn’t crossed yet._

Keeping the mark sedated and tied up in the bathtub of a motel was stupidly simple. A “Do Not Disturb” sign and $20 bucks to the housekeeping staff - “Just need some towels, darlin’, thanks,” - gives them complete privacy, and Sam’s good at breaking into hospitals, knows how to find the drugs and dosage they need to keep him docile. Dean searches out the exact right spot for their celebration later, gathers supplies. When they’re not busy with preparations, Dean takes a knife, makes shallow cuts on the mark’s chest and arms, whispers the story of why this is happening to a man too drugged to hear it until Sam lures him back to bed.

_“I thought… like we talked about, I thought we could do it like that,” Sammy said and his voice was breathless with excitement. And that’s what Dean had been thinking, too, thinking about finally finally putting his hands on Sam, and he’d found a field full of fireflies, wanted to make it special for his baby boy, but then he’d found Sam with some other man all over him. “He deserves it,” Sammy continued, and Dean remembered other conversations, other wishes and desires shared in the dark, and he started to understand. Started to smile at the pathetic thing, whimpering in pain and trying to crawl away._

Summer is Dean’s favorite time of year, when blood dries sticky almost as soon as it’s out of a body and the slaughter smell of a kill hangs heavy in the air and Sammy turns into a cat in heat, always at his dick. Baby’s backed up almost to the door of the room, and it takes less than a minute to walk the mark from the door to the trunk, get him safely stored away from prying eyes. Dean slams the trunk shut and Sam presses up against him, wraps around him all lips and legs and they rub frantically against each other until a shocked gasp reminds them that they’re not alone and if they didn’t already have plans for the night Dean would shoot Mrs. Middle America for the interruption.

_Dean hauled the man up over his shoulder and he sobbed, begged them to let him go until Sammy, bright beautiful Sammy, pulled off a sock and stuffed it in his mouth, muffling his cries with the improvised gag. “Good boy,” Dean said and Sammy glowed at the praise. Sam ran ahead, spread a tarp from the trunk in the backseat and Dean dumped the creep on it, tore rags into strips and trussed him up like a pig. Sammy was already in the front seat, hanging over to watch and bouncing with excitement, and Dean grinned at him. “Gonna have so much fun tonight, baby,” he said, and kicked the man when he started struggling, eyes wide with fear._

The field Dean chose is over an hour out of town, and it takes them three to get there because Sammy’s a damn tease. Snuggles up to him and runs long fingers whisper-soft over his inseam, bends down to mouth over his cock, get the denim wet with spit and precome, nuzzle at him and talk about everything they’re gonna do tonight, how much it’ll hurt, how the blood will run sticky red over them and how they’ll lick it off, until Dean pulls off the road to fuck him again. And again. 

_The field was silvery-pale in the moonlight and the fireflies danced in the grass, twinkling lights that Sammy ran after, laughing. Dean followed, pulled the man who thought he could put his hands on Sam after him. The moonlight washed away all color, left the blood dried on his clothes and skin black, and Dean wanted to see if it would be scarlet again when it flowed fresh. He yanked the rag-leash tied to the man’s wrists, sent him stumbling forward. A kick to the back of the knee dropped him, and Sammy came back, eyes sparkling brighter than any stars and the butterfly knife Dean gave him for his last birthday in his hand._

The thumps in the trunk get louder as the sun dips down, and Dean grins down. “Time, baby brother,” and Sammy smiles back up at him, wraps arms and legs around Dean and lets Dean carry him around to the back of the car where a tarp is laid out waiting. He kneels there, shining in the moonlight and Dean remembers back years to a night of firsts, and that memory is why this night, out of all the year, is always the same. Always Sammy playing bait, always some creep thinking cash means he gets to touch what’s Dean’s, always fireworks in an empty field. He’s sentimental like that. Dean smiles fondly at the love of his life, turns to get their toy from the trunk.

_He fought back. flailed wildly when Sammy brought his knife up, managed to knock the blade away and the boy down, and Sammy gave a yelp of surprise that had the red haze floating into Dean’s eyes again. His own knife was in his hand in an instant and the first spurt of arterial blood on his face had him aching hard. He stabbed into the flesh before him again, felt more blood and other bits spill out of the body under his knees, felt sharp and bright and alive. Dean raised his arm again and Sammy’s hands on his arm stopped him. He turned to Sam, snarled, and Sam didn’t flinch. Just licked his lips and said “I want to, too.” Dean let Sam take the knife, let him peel his fingers from the handle, watched as Sam climbed onto the body in front of him. Moaned as Sam leaned back into him, pressed hard against his dick. Sam took his time choosing his strike, finally brought the point of the blade to rest against the body’s chest and leaned, let his weight drive the blade between the ribs. The movement pushed his ass harder into Dean, and Dean rubbed himself against Sam. “That’s the heart,” Sam said, looking over his shoulder. Dean leaned forward, caught his lips in a kiss and it was sweeter than he’d dreamed, copper-bright with a stranger’s blood._

This year’s perv must have a killer headache, coming of the cocktail of drugs Sammy’s pumped into him over the last few days. His suit is rumpled, filthy and foul-smelling after being worn for days. That doesn’t matter. Dean grins and tosses a bag to Sam, and Sam grins back as he pulls out a handful of railroad spikes and a mallet. The man’s eyes roll in terror, show white all around. Dean sits on his stomach, grabs one leg while he thrashes and tries to throw Dean off. Sam sits on the other to stop his kicking, pulls off the fancy shoe, and hammers a spike through his foot and the tarp into the ground. The man screams, high and thin, and Dean laughs. “No one here for miles,” he tells him, and Sam shoots him a glare. Sam never likes the screamers. With the first foot nailed down, it’s easy to get the second, and then release the handcuffs to nail his hands down, spikes driven through the wrists with Sammy’s usual precision. Wouldn’t do to have him bleed out before the game’s done.

_After that first taste, Dean went crazy, couldn’t get enough, felt like he’d been starving for years and found a feast. Grabbed his knife back from Sammy because the fastest way to get him naked was to slice the clothes off him, pushed him down on the gory body and painted roses on his skin with dead man’s blood, sucked and bit everywhere until Sam was covered neck to knees in vivid bruises and bite marks, thrashed about and begged for more._

Sam sets to work in earnest while Dean watches and the man screams for help. Scarlet lines open across the skin, blood welling up in runes carved into the flesh. It’s beautiful, pristine, and Dean wants to shove his fingers into the cuts, tear them wide and smear the gore across the man’s chest but it’s not his turn and ruining Sammy’s fun would ruin his later. And Sam kneeling over the struggling man is just as beautiful now as it was then, back when Sam was small and soft and fit under his chin while they killed a man just like the one on the ground. Sam cuts deeper, slices through skin and fat and muscle, scrapes flesh away from ribs so the bone shines white before blood flows in and the man’s screams go silent, turn to great wheezing breaths. His blood flows freely, coats Sam’s hands and legs and glistens black in the moonlight.

_Sammy’s arms and legs wrapped around him as he sank in and everything was hot and wet and perfect on their bed of flesh. Dean stilled, had to stop or it would be over too soon and he’d waited thirteen years for this, needed it to last. Sammy was impatient, though, always had been. He dug blunt nails into Dean’s back, sharp teeth into his arm, heels into Dean’s hips and that gave him enough leverage to start fucking himself up on Dean’s cock. Dean started thrusting, hard and fast, pushing Sam deeper into the body beneath them._

“Gettin’ too old for this,” Dean grunts as he climbs up behind Sam, ruts against him. Sam looks back at him, wild-eyed with the kill, and laughs, and Dean smiles, loves Sam in all his moods but this one is a special favorite. Sam stretches out, slides his hands along the splayed arms, laces his fingers with the corpse’s and tips his hips up so Dean slides easily into his hole, still slick with lube and come, and Dean marvels at how this never gets old.

_After it was over, after he’d licked Sammy clean inside and out, after dismembering what was left of the pile of flesh and bone and wrapping it tightly in the tarp, after they’d washed off as well as they could with damp cloths and bottled water, they sat on Baby and set off stolen fireworks. Sam cuddled close to him, clung tight, and Dean decided then that no one could know what had happened there. When they left, the field was in flames, and the body was sunk in weighted bags in a nearby lake._

They pack the body into garbage bags, shove it back into the truck to dispose of in a pig farm two towns over, leave the man’s suit in the field soaked in cheap vodka. Set off fireworks that they ignore, laying back on the hood of the Impala and kissing lazily, playing a game of “remember when.” Before they leave, Sam lights a sparkler, tosses it on the suit and watches it catch. They drive off with the field glowing orange in the rearview mirror, the sun barely peeking over the horizon.

-

Henriksen spends days trying to find a sign of them, but accidental fires aren’t even on his radar, too common when people are setting off fireworks across the country, and this night - this kill - is not for him.

It’s only them.


	9. Halloween

Currently thinking of Henriksen, and he doesn’t have to wonder what the Winchesters are going to be doing on Halloween because they’re already there, killing.

“It was like this last year,” he says to Guntram as they fly towards Oregon, towards Portland and three bodies with missing hearts in the last two days, apparent animal attacks but there’s a pattern to it that feels human. “Not the hearts and the claw marks and bites. That’s just more Winchester theatrics. No, last year they were in St. Louis. Killed a bunch of folks, made it look like vampire attacks.”

“How?”

“Best guess is they stabbed them with a barbecue fork, drained the blood and left the bodies in alleys. Some they kept, and we found those ones later. After Halloween. Fuckers like to pretend to be classic movie monsters this time of year.”

“So if last year was Dracula, this year is…”

“Looks like Wolfman, from the MO. I don’t even want to know what Dean offered Sam to get him to dress up.”

“You think that’s Sam, in the witness reports?”

“Got to be. Too tall to be Dean, although the witnesses must have been exaggerating somewhat. But a man Sam’s size, in the dark, dressed up as a werewolf… Easy to see why they thought he was seven feet tall.”

“They could think that about Dean, though.”

“Except they also mention seeing a man in a leather jacket, light hair, pale skin, watching as the ‘monster’ attacks. Getting his rocks off watching baby brother maul innocent folks.”

“I dunno, boss. It seems like a lot of trouble to go through for some murder.”

Henriksen laughs, a harsh mirthless bark of a sound. “You’re talking about the brotherfuckers who spent all summer last year kidnapping folks and stashing them God only knows where, only to turn around and murder them, leave their headless corpses in a warehouse that they burned down, and we still don’t know what the fuck they did with the heads. Getting Sammy dressed up like some psycho furry freak is probably an average Wednesday night for those assholes.”

Guntram smiles wryly, conceding the point. “Still, it’s too bad about the moon. Bet Dean’s all sorts of pissed.”

“… the _fuck_ you on about, rookie?”

“Just… the moon was full last night. The 26th. Guess the Winchesters figured it was close enough, but…”

“But Halloween’s not until Wednesday,” Henriksen finishes. He’s silent for a few minutes, mulling over the issue. _“Fuck._ Shit, fuck, _damn,_ and all the rest.” He stands, starts pacing the aisle, wishing airplane seats could be tossed.

“Sir?”

“This whole charade is just the preshow. They’re gearing up to the grand finale… and we’ve only got four days to stop it.”

-

They land just after midnight on the 27th, and the first thing Henriksen does is look up at the moon, hanging just past full in the sky. “What do you think, rookie? Winchesters gonna kill some other unlucky soul?”

“They did the last two nights,” Guntram says. “Be a crazy break from the pattern if they don’t.”

A detective is waiting for them on the ground, her face grim. Henriksen nods as the team disembarks. “Just take us to the scene.”

-

Another body, covered in claw marks, missing a heart. Mutilated to the point that it’s impossible to tell if it’s male or female, they’ll have to leave that up to the coroner. Blood splashed across the walls of the ill-advised alley shortcut the victim risked earlier that evening, and massive pawprints from the killer - Sam.

Guntram talks to witnesses. No one saw anything, but they heard screaming and “some kinda animal, growling.” Everyone noticed a gleaming black muscle car at the end of the alley, and the handsome man driving it away once the screaming ended, but it’s long lost to the city traffic. Henriksen puts out a BOLO anyway, sets up surveillance on warehouses and motels in the area.

“We’ve got a chance here - maybe our best chance - to catch them. So stay sharp.”

And there’s nothing left to do but wait.

-

It’s not a long wait.

The car doesn’t turn up - the brothers seem to have a sense for when Henriksen and his team are in the area, know to stash the distinctive vehicle and stay under the radar - and they don’t stay in any motels, don’t go near the warehouse district. 

It’s a panicked call from Beaverton that reveals their location, the morning after Halloween, from a family that went on vacation and came back to a crime scene in their garage, obvious burglary in the rest of the house. Henriksen sends Guntram ahead, already talking with state troopers about putting up roadblocks and checkpoints for the next few days because they have to be in the area and he’s tired of playing catch-up.

In the house, in the garage, there’s the body of a woman who went missing three days earlier. She’d been kept alive, collared and chained, subjected to torture. What looks like chemical burns around her neck, up her arms and down her legs, and signs of repeated electrocution, a car battery sitting on the nearby workbench. She’s been dead less than eight hours, killed just before the homeowners returned.

Like all the other bodies, her heart is missing, a gaping wound left that the coroner declares to be postmortem.

And the Winchesters are in the wind.

“Stick around, Guntram. Brotherfuckers aren’t done with this town yet. They’re planning something for tomorrow.”


	10. Anniversary (Nov 2)

Currently thinking of Victor Henriksen, three years ago when he first connected the Winchesters to two different patterns of crime: the “Movie Monster Marauders,” who strike each year on and around Halloween, and another, less flashy and ignored by the media in favor of the more sensational murders just two days prior.

It was the November second arsonists that first put Henriksen on the trail of the Winchesters, when he came to investigate a string of murders in a “haunted” house and was still in town when a single-family home went up in flames two blocks over. The only survivors were the children, brothers, two and seven years old, and they weren’t talking. Couldn’t, yet, the psychologists said. Maybe Henriksen could have written it off as coincidence, but debris in the ashes came from the victims of the other murders and it didn’t take long to find out that there was always a house fire on November second, always near the Halloween murders, always with two young brothers surviving. And the arson pattern went back to the mid 90s, long before the Halloween murders started.

Finding that, most investigators wouldn’t go back further, but Henriksen has always been a stubborn sonuvabitch, checked earlier and earlier until he finds the fire that sent John Winchester and his boys on the road back in 1983, and that gives him a name to follow.

-

The house is dark, quiet, and Sam watches the street at their back as Dean picks the lock. They slip inside, soft soled shoes silent on thick carpet. Dean grins back at him, and Sam knows just what he’s thinking: these people deserve it for making it so easy. Sam rolls his eyes and heads to the master bedroom to give the husband and wife sleeping there a quick tap with a weighted baton, make sure they’ll never wake up again.

He wants to take his time, wants to slit her belly open and strangle the man with his wife’s entrails, but that’s not the plan for tonight. “Tomorrow,” Sam whispers in her ear, a promise to himself. “We’ll find another tomorrow, have some fun.”

Zip ties on their wrists and ankles will make sure they can’t get free, can’t stop the fire even if they do wake up, but they won’t. They never do, even when the air around them is thick with smoke and flames are licking at their feet.

He finds Dean in the living room, painting gel out of a tin across the walls. “Check it out, Sammy - fondue fuel!” Dean’s smile is infectious, makes an answering grin creep across Sam’s face and a dark chuckle rumble in his chest.

Sam grabs Dean’s jacket, leather butter soft under his fingers, pulls Dean in and seals their mouths together. Dean’s tongue thrusts into his mouth and Sam moans, presses in harder before pulling back, leaving them both panting.

“Bitch,” Dean says. “That’s not playing fair.”

“When have we ever played fair?” Sam turns away, adds as an afterthought, “Jerk.” He starts towards the hallway, heading for the back of the house and a room shared by two small children, but he doesn’t make it far. Dean slams into his back, shoving him into the wall and rutting against his ass.

“You’re a damn tease, baby brother,” Dean growls in his ear before sinking teeth into his neck, just barely breaking the skin and Sam can almost come from that alone. Does come from a hand shoved down his pants, slick with highly flammable gel, and Dean’s rolling thrusts behind him.

When Dean steps back, Sam turns, reaches out to pull him into the master bedroom and damn the plan, what good is a plan that doesn’t involve fucking and blood anyway, but motion at the end of the hall catches his eye.

It’s the youngest - Nick, they know, from days spent watching the family - two years old and sneaking out of bed. Watching with wide eyes and a thumb in his mouth. Sam freezes, staring back, but Dean crouches down. “Hey there, Nicky,” he whispers, and Sam hates hearing that gentle tone directed at anyone but him, hates it even though this is the plan, back on track. He steps closer, threads his fingers through Dean’s short-cropped hair, and Dean looks up at him briefly. 

“This isn’t the plan,” Sam whispers, and the sound travels easily through the dark. “They’re not supposed to be awake.”

“Plans change,” Dean whispers back, and Sam has to agree, because his plan to blow Dean when they’re on the highway heading east has just changed, and he decides it’ll take Dean days of begging to get that one back on track.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Dean says, and there’s a wheedling tone that says he knows just what Sam’s thinking, knows Sam’s already pissed at how close Henriksen is, knows they’ll have to be extra careful for a while. “I’ll take care of the brats. You get your Firestarter on.”

And fire never fails to put Sam back in a good mood.

-

Henriksen and his team get to the scene in just under half an hour, breaking every speed limit between Portland and Salem, and Henriksen’s cursing the entire way. Wishes he’d thought to set up roadblocks before Halloween, but the Winchesters have never left town for their arson before, and changing it up… He’s not sure what it means. Maybe they’re evolving, and isn’t that the worst fucking thing he can imagine.

At the scene, firefighters are putting out the last of the flames, heading into the ruins to check the stability before allowing investigators inside. The survivors, two year old Nick and five year old Max, are huddled together on a neighbor’s porch. Max holds Nick in his lap, won’t let any of the paramedics or cops or firemen take his brother from him.

“He’s _mine,”_ he says, over and over. “I hafta take care of him. They _said_ so.”

“What’d they say?” Guntram asks softly.

“Said ‘take your brother and run.’ An’ I _did._ An’ he’s _mine.”_

They won’t get more from the kids, Henriksen knows, but he leaves Guntram to try and coax more of the story from them. It’s all any of them has ever said. Police tape around a fence two doors down draws his attention, and the fresh spray paint on it makes Henriksen see red for a moment.

_Better luck next time Vicky ♥️_

“Bro-ther- _FUCKers.”_


End file.
